


Fury Will Understand

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: G.I. Joe: Rise of Cobra (2009), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Espionage, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Reader-Insert, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 10:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: A simple mission spirals out of control, you make a decision, and Fury suffers the consequences.





	Fury Will Understand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irishgirl321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishgirl321/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Avengers' Oneshots](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653776) by [irishgirl321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishgirl321/pseuds/irishgirl321). 



'Head down,' Fury growls, his eye trained on you.

     If you could, you'd protest, argue, state the obvious: your black uniform (a glorified bondage-jumpsuit, really) sticks out like a sore thumb, especially against the sterile white walls, which reflect the heavy overhanging light to a point that's almost painful. Almost. You have to squint, even behind your mask, and you wonder, briefly, how Fury copes. Maybe there _is_ some truth to the rumours - maybe your infamous leader isn't entirely human, after all. But Gods are real, and aliens exist, so it's really not your place to question. You're still new, a raw recruit, a rookie that shot up through the ranks when - instead of stepping down and joining the _real_ government, like any _sane_ person - S.H.I.E.L.D. was dissolved and you stood your ground. Black Widow's in the wind, Hawkeye's hiding (Fury only knows where) and Captain American is shield-deep in shit and Hydra saliva. You could be at home relaxing, living your life, doing something that is decidedly _not_ death-defying - and that severance package was _very_ generous - but where's the fun in that? What few friends you did have are either dead or soon will be. That's why, surprise, surprise, Fury's out in the field babysitting brats like you. It's nothing personal, you know, but Thor-Almighty, when did the bastard last sleep? Every second is critical, every minute an opportunity, but you - at least - are human, and you need a break, but there's no time to spare. Not for you, not for Fury, not for anyone. Not anymore.

     There are some one-thousand-and-one things you could say, but you don't. Instead, you nod and double down into a crouch that sets your thighs on fire and back aflame. All the technique in all the worlds is useless when the enemy can see you, clear as day; there are, no doubt, cameras fitted into the walls, the floor, the ceiling, stationed near hidden doors and secret passages that will, eventually, reveal a small army, a few mad scientists, and their oh-so-lovely lab experiments. If nothing else, Fury owes you a drink - a drink you will _gladly_ pay for if he'll just give you the evening off. Miracles have been known to happen. Gods are real, after all.

     Fury's signal is relayed down the line and everyone stops, backs hugging the walls just like you were taught in Basic Training: Infiltration 101. Ahead, the corridor abruptly cuts off in three directions. This is a good thing; most Hydra lairs follow a basic schematic and that means, having already reached the central crossroads, the compound is much smaller than S.H.I.E.L.D. originally suspected. That's also a bad thing. Enemies will be fewer, yes, but also closer and ready to go down guns blazing; most of their resources will be lacklustre (especially when compared to the average Avengers haul); and, instead of finding their deadly diamond in the rough, Fury might have been sent on a wild goose chase. It could be a trap designed to capture, or a bomb just waiting to go off. You must proceed regardless. There can be no room for error. You're shaking trees, Stark's paying for the damages - there can be no survivors.

     Team Alpha is sent ahead, Bravo to the right, and Charlie - which includes you - veer left, trekking down the stairs towards the basement laboratories, with Fury, of course, leading this suicidal mission.

     'Switch to coms,' Fury orders. 'Sound off.'

     There are eleven echoes of affirmation. 

     'Move out.'

     Three rooms - and far too much crunch-crawling - later, the hall splits in half, and no one has visual on the Christmas Tree, the reindeer, or Santa Claus. Charlie Two and Three - Hotkey and Spritzer - are sent north. Fury has you (why you?) follow him south. If the base is anything like the others, then the corridors should connect on the other side. They should, but they don't, and you pass through another two, three, four rooms without any resistance or any sign of your budding spies. The storage room is empty, the office barren, the workshop abandoned, and the little laboratory doesn't scream "evil genius". It barely whispers "backyard quack".

     'Charlie One...'

     'Easy, Charlie Four. Eyes out. Report,' he orders.

     Silence. Static. White noise. White walls - 

     Strike One.

     'Alpha One, Bravo One - respond.'

     Silence. Static. More silence.

     Strike Two.

     You stop. You think. You stand, ready to fire at the first flight of movement. You have a witty retort on your tongue (well, at least you _think_ it's witty) but for once, Fury doesn't admonish you and together you emerge, back-to-back, to clear the last room, a dead end. Your eyes roam over the white, white, white walls of this complacent corner. There's a small stage at the back, a stand fixed in the middle with an old-fashioned microphone, and there are twelve folding chairs - three rows of four - displayed in the centre. It feels like they're there for you, waiting for you, a thrice-damned goose chase. It reminds you, despairingly, of high school; how, not too long ago, you graduated, smiling at a faceless audience, a pair of empty chairs. There was always something more important, something else that demanded their attention, something that was worth abandoning you for.

     A hand falls upon your shoulder and you whirl around - stupid, stupid, _stupid_ \- deflecting a blow that doesn't come, parrying an attack that never arrives, pinning a non-existent enemy to the ground. A grey eagle soars before your eyes and you backtrack instantly.

     'Director Fury -'

     He removed his mask, goggles and all, revealing a dark face, a dark eye, a patched socket, and something that might be a smile, but you're too far away to say for certain. He discards your concerns and you step forward, bold in your embarrassment, offering a hand and stowing your pistol away with the other. His mouth opens as his arm extends, but his words are lost beneath a groan of metal-on-stone and a hail of bullets fired from automatic machine guns.

     You never liked geese, anyway.

     You can't go back so you dive forward, your body covering his for all of a heartbeat before you roll aside, scramble around the wall, and duck into the small storage room you cleared earlier. A dead end. Opposite you, Fury has tucked himself inside the office, and your goggled eyes scan him. You drink in the fear on his face, the strange pallor of his skin, the way his hands shake, the red trails he painted on the floor. The walls are thick, protective, supportive, but between you and him is a live firing range, and you have no hope of crossing it intact.

     He's trying to shout, to speak, to say _something_ , fingers pounding incessantly at his commlink, but you can't hear him. His words are drowned out or, maybe, they're interfering with the signal, but it doesn't bloody matter. You rise, sway on the spat - body _burning_ , head hammering - but by the Gods, you have to think! If this is a storage room - and you use the term lightly - then there has to be something you can use. It's not an armoury, so using the metal sheeting as a shield would be like wrapping yourself in paper. Tissue paper. You fish out a pair of pipe-like poles from an old oil drum, and they are reinforced with something decidedly inhuman - looks like the Chitauri were finally good for something - and you roll one across the floor, dodging a ricocheting bullet, before rapping your knuckles on the door. He's standing now, standing tall, his back flat against the wall, shoulders tense, face and weapon drawn. He snags the pipe with his boot, rolls it in further, springs down to grasp it, and dodges behind the door. He makes a show of nodding to you - thank the Gods, his door has the same type of handle as yours. You can't tell, not from where you're standing, but he makes a gesture that could mean "be quiet", "sit down" or "stay here", but screw that - the bastard's bleeding! Maybe it's just a flesh wound or even just a graze, but you can't take that chance.

     You, too, make a show of nodding - firmly, clearly - if only to give him peace of mind. You close the door, bar it, and then you're searching the shelves, overturning everything with watering eyes and trembling hands. You can't lose the Director, and you can't bear the thought of losing the man hidden beneath. Sure, he's your boss, your mentor, the man you admire, but he's given you more then you could have ever hope for. Friends, a family, a reason to fight for your pathetic existence on Earth. You fight for what you believe in, what he will _die_ to protect, and the thought of his life slipping through your fingers, his blood staining your hands - It's not _your_ fault, you know. Sometimes the universe just deals you a shit show... but it wouldn't be the same without him. Hell, he escaped certain death once - he can bloody well do it again! But there's nothing here, nothing even remotely useful for treating gunshot wounds, savour several old sheets that, despite needing a good ironing, are acceptably clean. It's more than you have in your belted med-kit, and it takes time, but you tear a suitable swatch off; it's too big to fold, so you wrap it around your abdomen - good thing these jumpsuits whip on and off so easily - and you stuff a few smaller strips into an empty belt pack. 

     Objective One, Complete. Objective Two...? Turing into swiss cheese doesn't hold much appeal to you, less than scrambling through a tiny air vent. But surely, in rooms as small and close as these, the ducts have to connect. It's easy enough to shove a crate over, climb atop a couple of boxes, and tease the screws out with your boot knife before you toss the grate away and stuff yourself inside. The tunnel twists here and turns there, rising in one place only to fall in another, and then you have to choose: forward, or right, and you can't - you cannot, for the life of you - remember how far you've crawled, or which direction you started in. Gritting your teeth, you carry onward, but the air vent you arrive at doesn't show the interior of an almost empty office. Instead, you have a sky-high view of the stage, and a pair of shadows are standing in a doorway that did _not_ exist before. One's tall, heavily built, definitely male, and obviously carrying some kind of weapon; the other is smaller, thinner, wearing a cape or cloak because - No. No, you can see him now, an old man wearing a lab coat that's seen better days, and a spotless briefcase. He stops, looks back, barks an order in German, and you can't quite translate it because, while the machine guns have stopped, the cavalry's arrived and the shootout has only just begun.

     Reinforcements. Familiar, _friendly_ faces, because only Spritzer could make Fury curse with every other word.

     You tug off your mask - all the better to hear, to see, to _breathe_ \- and you can just make out the head of a black King Cobra resting against the scientist's left breast pocket. The red Hydra plastered across his back is easy to see, and you watch him flatten against the wall and slide out of sight. No one makes to follow him. He's lost in the white noise of warfare. It's tempting to look back, to crawl back through the vent, but you stare down at the ground. You've survived greater falls than this, you have no idea how to reach Fury from here, and no one saw the scientist leave. It's a risk, a gamble, but Fury wouldn't let him leave, even if it was your life on the line. And the Director of Shield? He's dead, so they say, and he has to stay that way. Fury will understand, even if you wish you didn't.

     A few well-placed kicks to the grating sends it crashing down, and you jump with it, landing harder than you intend, but the pain is bearable, and you fire point-blank at the bodyguard without stopping, jumping over his body and running after your mark. Something black darts around the corner through the secret corridor, and you have no idea where you are or where you're going, just that you're chasing down the only Hydra Scientist with a heart condition. He's panting heavily, his legs are beginning to tire, and that case must be heavy. It looks like an old M.A.R.S. Industry design, their famous Bulletproof Briefcase, a favourite of James McCullen himself. 

     You turn another corner, feet pounding now his have stopped, and he draws something from his coat pocket, but you're quicker, firing first. You _miss_. A shoulder wound, his dominant shoulder, yes, but it wasn't a clean kill - or even a kill shot - and when you fire again, it goes _wide_. Romanoff will kill you, provided Fury doesn't find you first.

     He slams through a pair of doors and you follow blindly, running head first into a real laboratory. You skid to a halt, narrowly avoided a bookshelf, but he has both hands on another. It topples over, falling against the wall, but there was nothing soft on those shelves, filled with multicoloured vials and beakers and bottles, and you are _howling_ as you fire at the bastard's legs. He falls, screams, and you fight to rise, to stand, glass pressing through your gloves, chemicals burning through your suit, eyes watering, head pounding. 

     He tries to stand, fails, tries again, fails again, but you use the wall for support, get off a few rounds before you falter, but he's stopped moving. Blessedly, the briefcase is intact - it could have been a prototype, but that was a risk your hands and eyes and brain couldn't comprehend back then. You stagger towards and fall before it, grappling with the latches, but it is, of course, one of those encrypted voice-activated cases with its little green nano-mite lights, and you may have just killed the password. You kneel next to him, turn him over, but no - foam at the mouth, muscles convulsing, eyes rolling back in their sockets. Cyanide Tooth. Old, crude, but effective.

     You go for a growl, maybe a snarl, but all you can do is choke, then gag, and finally vomit blood and bile, and you are in no condition to answer Fury's demand to _open the fucking door_. 

     'Not... inside,' you pant.

     'Not - The where the _hell_ are you?'

     At least the commlinks work. 'Be... Behind the - the stage. Pass - no, through... _through_ the lab. Got a guy. Cyanide. Case in... intact. One of M.A.R.S.' I think... I think -'

     'Stay on the line, Charlie Four. That's an order. Sit tight. We're coming to you. What's the damage?'

     'Dam... Damage? Case is... is fine.'

     The case may be, but you are most certainly not. Sure, you're not as strong as Captain America, and you'll never be as fit as Thor - Hell, it'll take you years to reach Hawkeye's level of fitness - but you're no slob. You're a trained agent, not a hyperventilating schoolgirl. 

     'Not the damn case! You!'

     'Ugh. Had... Had better days.'

     You've had worse, too, but none come to mind right now because the adrenaline is finally starting to wear off, pain is snaking through your veins, your lungs are gasping for breath, and your mouth is filling with... Oh. You wondered what that taste was.

     A sickening _squeak_ reaches your ears - boots sliding along the floor - and you turn. Your muscles protest, but you a stand - a pose you can't hold for long, so you kneel - back to the briefcase and eyes trained on a black jumpsuit. 

     'Freeze!' For once, the figure listens. It's never that easy, though. 'Identify yourself,' you command, your voice cold because you won't - you will _not_ show these bastards fear. 

     He, for it definitely a man, raises his hands - slowly, upon your orders - and turns to face you. It's anyone's guess how many bullets you have in your gun, or how long it will take for you to change the magazine, but he doesn't know that, and patience is a virtue; every second it critical, every minute an opportunity. The odds are not stacked in your favour, even if Fury is on his way to save you.

     'I won't ask again.'

     'Didn't think I'd changed that much.'

     'For fuck's sake, Fury!' you grouse, dropping your arms without a care because - fuck! Assaulting the Not-Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. twice is one day? That's begging for a demotion. Perhaps an early retirement. And that's if you're lucky.

     Still, you send him a smile, a smirk. It might look more like a grimace, especially as you rise and someone launches a red-hot poker through your side, but you stow your gun and take up the case. It's a surreal feeling, listening to him reporting back on _your_ success, that the package is secure - was this what you came for? - and that you're alive. A successful mission, all things considered, and there's no mistaking the smile on his face this time. His eyes crinkle at the edges and he looks ten years younger. You could get used to that look, supposing you aren't going to be demoted. Or fired.

     'Nice work, Agent. Seems like Romanoff was right about you.'

     Praise? From Nick Fury? _And_ Natasha Romanoff? Have you died and gone to heaven? 

     His chuckle catches you off guard. It's a warm, deep, revolving sound - rough around the edges, yes, but abrasive in the best way.

     'Not yet... and not on my watch.'

     His words make no sense. You pause a moment, to ponder them, and when it dawns on you - _Shit, I said that out loud!_ \- Nick Fury, the Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, is _laughing_. Laughing at you, with you - You don't care because how many people in the world - in the _universe_ \- have made the greatest spy on Earth laugh? You're willing to bet he can count them on one hand. You're too surprised, too elated, too _flattered_ to feel any notion of pain or regret or embarrassment. He moves to intercept your approach, eyeing you critically, offering a hand you can't accept - the glass in your palm needs to be removed first - so he moves to take the case, to take away some of your pain because Mjolnir, is this thing heavy! But your hand is slick with blood, and his skin glistens with sweat, and the handle slips between your fingertips and falls to the floor, landing with a dull thumb before sprawling flat on its face. The sound echoes like a clap of thunder.

     You snap your eyes shut, throw your hands over your ears, and you're mindless of the new scars carving their way onto your face because that crack of thunder is ringing like a gong in your ears. Fury's hands are warm, heat you can feel through your gloves, and he's trying to prize your fingers free, but you're not having it. He startles you into opening your eyes, his hands holding your face. They're oddly cold, now, and you wobble without meaning to, the world shifting and distorting. That blue glow is soothing, though, even if it makes you squint. 

     It takes you a moment - several more than it would have taken Fury, surely - but you remember the case, the scientist, the cyanide tooth, the voice-activated security system. The world shifts again, and you're on you're knees. Fury falls with you, cold hands carefully clapping over your ears, urging you to face him, but you only have eyes for the case. Behind the handle, fixed across the top and bottom lips, there are a set of buttons, little circles of red light that you swear were green, once. The last in a line of five is flickering between the two colours. It chooses red.

    Your actions are a cocktail of gut instinct and raw fear. You break free from his arms and push him away before you grab the case and _run_. The heavy hammers of the gong become lighter, faster, louder, the beepings of a ticking time bomb, and you dive forward, aiming for the opposite end of the hall, and shroud the blue, blue, blue light that erupts with your body.

     You grit your teeth against the pain... but it never comes. There's fire, a kind of cold heat that sucks all the air from your lungs, and it's as unbearable as it is pleasant. Your vision shutters between shades of blue and white before clouding over black, and you find it strangely easy to think. The brown blob you see? Three guesses what it could be. You try to speak - he has to go, to leave - but your mouth refuses to work properly, and even if it does, you can't hear a word you're saying. If you can't understand yourself, how is he supposed to? You have no way to explain what happened or why you expected _more_. More pain, more fireworks, more destruction. Perhaps that was what Hydra intended, to create bombs of Tesseract or Sceptre energy that their victims absorbed, turning themselves into living explosives. You wouldn't put it past them, but Fury is shaking his head - that, at least, is easy to determine, if slightly sickening to watch - so you're not likely to explode in a shower of blood, guts and gore. At least Fury - 

     It hits you suddenly, spreading out rapidly, a fierce heat that sears the roof of your mouth, sails down your tongue and forces hot air back into your lungs. You don't want it, none of it, but you _need_ it - you need to _breathe_ , you're desperate for air - and you're panting, coughing and crying - wailing, screaming, shrieking because _Gods_ \- you can _feel_ the pain, the agony, the torture every heartbeat takes. You can hear your voice echoing, bouncing off the walls, and it sounds so far away.

     His voice is closer, talking to you, ordering you - _begging_ you - to hold on. And you're pleading with him, begging him to stop the pain. His tears are cold against your burning cheeks, but your name is a warm whisper against your ear.

     You correct him because you're more than an agent. You were a person first, another star-eyed child who dreamed of being a super-spy. Or, wait - did you? Is that true? What did you want to be, again? You... you can't remember. 

     He's calling you again, whispering in your ear. He tells you to call him Nicholas. 

     That makes it easier. You can't cry in front of Fury, but you can admit your fear to Nicholas. He holds your hands, careless of the glass, and wipes trails of blood from your eyes, insisting that you _will_ survive, that you're still needed here - that _he_ needs you here. If he must endure Spritzer's antics, then so do you.

     It hurts to laugh, to cough, to breathe.

     Nicholas insists you stay with him, that you talk to him, that you tell him anything, everything, so long as you just - keep - talking. 

     'Just focus on me. Listen to my voice...'

     He has a nice voice, a _very_ nice voice - you'll give him that - but you don't have time to chat. You have to report back to Director Fury - 

     Nicholas sounds angry, but his fury isn't aimed at you. He's afraid and scared and desperate, but you don't know why. Your vision keeps swimming in and out of focus, colours blurring, and your ears are only picking up every other word. His voice is getting fainter, your head's getting heavier, and the pain... The pain is colder, softer, smoother. You're floating atop it, being carried away by it - you don't know where, don't rightly care, so long as it's away from the pain. The waves rocks you like a baby in a cradle even as the current drags you under. You can't - You _won't_ \- It's the last thing you want, dragging him with you, but he's slipping away, rising further and further, closer and closer to the surface.

     'Ni... Nick... Nicholas...' you slur, swallowing water.

     He's still shushing you, trying to reassure you, encouraging you to keep your head up, to swim for the surface. His words are all but incomprehensible, but it's the thought that counts. It's a terrible trial, but you ask him about Fury, about taking the night off, about taking him out for a drink - your treat. You don't feel so good, could use a good night's sleep, and its doubtless that Fury could, too. You worry about him, hope that Nicholas will look after him, and something snaps; breaks, but you can't see enough to help fix it. Nicholas tells you that Fury will understand, that you need to save your strength, that Fury will expect you bright and early tomorrow morning. His words reach you slowly, crawling through your ear to reach your brain. 

     '...sounds like Fury,' you say, smiling. 'No... thing ever ch-changes. I hope... hope he never ch-changes...'

     It's all a dream, you tell yourself. You'll go to sleep, wake up at the crack of dawn (or just before if Natasha comes to terrorise you) and everything will be normal. Nothing will have changed.

     You hear laughter - warm and wet and just this side of a choking sob. Maybe it's your imagination. Maybe the mad-scientist put a canister of hallucinogenic gas inside his briefcase. But no. Fury's laughter was warm and wild and loud - you loved the sound. Nicholas sounds so sad, and you want to make him happy, to see him smile. That might be difficult right now, but you could touch his mouth, feel the corners curl up. Does he know that Fury's eyes crinkle when he smiles?

     'I know now,' he says, voice quavering. Then says something about the date - which you can't remember, so there can't be anything important happening today - and about dinner, but you're not hungry, just tired. So very, very...  _very_ tired. 

     When you drop off, his voice lingers until you finally, _finally_ fall asleep. Just a little break, a quick cat nap. Surely Fury will understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Specifically, this was inspired by "Chapter 9: Obeying Orders" on the Avengers' Oneshots by irishgirl321.


End file.
